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Sometimes, I Simply Am a Woman
But the imposter still waits in the mirror.
Sometimes, I just simply am a woman.
Not because I’ve earned it or proven it. Not because the world applauded or handed me a certificate. But because I am. I feel it in the rhythm of walking through a store without flinching, in how I answer to “ma’am” without checking over my shoulder. I see her in the mirror when I choose to look. Sometimes, I even smile back.
There are moments when my voice softens into itself without force. Not because I’m trying, but because I’m safe. Because someone says my name — Anna — and I believe them. My shoulders lower. My breath steadies. I don’t need to watch my gait or adjust my hips. I just exist. As her.
And then the imposter arrives.
It doesn’t kick down the door. It seeps. Like a draft under the window of a warm room. A look that lingers too long. A thought that questions too much. A mirror that reflects something I didn’t consent to see. Suddenly, I wonder how much of what is seen is him. How much people are pretending for my benefit. How much of this womanhood is real, and how much is tolerated.
That inner sabotage is learned. I didn’t invent it. The world gave it to me, handed down like a family heirloom I never asked for. “Don’t be too loud.” “Don’t be…
